


yolk-assed bitches

by SchweenWinchester



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Genji Shimada is a Little Shit, M/M, McHanzo - Freeform, McHanzo Reverse Bang 2018, Meet-Cute, Reverse Big Bang, Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Trans Character, Trans Hanzo Shimada, Trans Jesse McCree, Trans Male Character, also just saying but nyc sucks if you do anything more than just visit briefly, sorry folks no direct porn in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 17:49:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15779049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SchweenWinchester/pseuds/SchweenWinchester
Summary: Hanzo Shimada is the overworked, overstressed head chef and owner of a high end hipster paradise of a restaurant in Manhattan, and he doesn't know the meaning of the word "relax."  Jesse McCree is a food writer barely scraping by, on the verge of eviction, and considering upping sticks back to New Mexico.This is how a plate of eggs benedict somehow saved BOTH their asses.This is for the McReverse Bang 2018, inspired by beautiful art drawn by the ever-lovely hiighnooning.tumblr.com, who has been remarkably patient with my never ending hogwash.





	1. Chapter 1

“Genji!  Quit playin’ grab-ass with the waiters and cook some damn food already!”

Hanzo couldn’t help but sigh when he heard the dishwasher’s words.  The whole morning had been a disaster, his brother was a disaster, his kitchen was a disaster.   _ He _ was a disaster, but he wouldn’t ever admit that out loud where anyone could hear.  He cursed softly under his breath and glanced out to the dining room, where people ate contentedly, totally unaware that the head chef was having a midlife crisis about a decade early behind the swinging doors.

“Genji!  Come on! He’s got food to deliver!”

Hanzo’s head jerked up.  “Genji, if you don’t unhand him right this moment you’re out of the kitchen for good.  Focus on what you’re getting paid to do and have your little romp after your shift is over.”

That earned a deeply wounded look from his brother, but Genji did release the waiter- oh, what was his name, Lu-something- and returned to his station, muttering under his breath and probably cursing Hanzo and any of his future progeny for generations to come.  Not that it particularly mattered, at least- the only thing Hanzo was ever planning on producing was food.

What did one do in a midlife crisis?  The only thing springing to mind was buying a Miata and cheating on one’s wife, but Hanzo was single and owning a car in the city was probably the stupidest idea on earth.  Buy a boat? He didn’t like boats.

Drink heavily, was the answer he came to, and he gazed longingly at the wine cellar door before turning back to the sous-vide he was currently monitoring for tomorrow’s brunch menu.

There was no functional reason for him to feel so strange and low, was the problem.  He ran a successful restaurant that got excellent reviews, he was highly respected in his field... but something was incomplete.  Likely his absolute lack of a personal life, but that was the culinary field for you, insatiable with how it devoured every waking moment, from before sunup to well after sundown.

He should have listened to his gut and become a private chef for some rich family, he mused.  Cooking vast amounts of food for people who would barely appreciate it was getting tired and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could sustain himself without having a complete and total mental breakdown and letting some burly guys in white coats take him away for a long, long, non-negotiable vacation while the restaurant would melt down completely.  Genji would be his Nero. The Mason Jar would be his Rome. Then again, with his brother’s predilections, he may very well wind up a Caligula-

“Genji! Your sauce is burning!”

“Shit!  Shit shit shit shit!”  Genji practically tossed aside the cute leggy sommelier and ran to his station, where, indeed, a sauce was burning.

Hanzo watched, exhausted, and clenched and unclenched his hands.  The wine cellar could wait. He had an excellent bottle of Petit Syrah waiting for him after work.  If that failed, there was always the mediocre Gewurztraminer he had chilling in the fridge at home.

* * *

 

Jesse cursed, smacked the top of his old desktop, cursed again, and let his eyes slide slowly, wistfully to the window where the neon glow of the liquor store sign glimmered through the wet glass like a star to the east. His fingers itched for a cigarette.

And some fucking genius had told him being a food writer was easy. It'd be fun, they’d said. Get paid to eat, they'd said. You'll do really well and absolutely, definitely make your rent payments.

He hoped his landlady was in a good mood this month.

Back to the doc he had open, yet again.  Two words. Two thousand were due in three days.  He was going slowly fucking insane trying to make this shitty goddamn deadline and if he didn’t, he’d be an enormous letdown to not just himself, but to his boss, his sister, his family- there would be great wailing and gnashing of teeth, he decided.  Yet again, Jesse McCree was a failure. Couldn’t finish high school. Couldn’t slog through college. Couldn’t even finish a shitty essay on why this particular Portuguese restaurant was mediocre at best.

This sucked ass.

He stood and stretched, going to his coffeemaker and pouring the last of the pot- sludge, at this point, half-burnt and bitter- into his mug.  Better that than booze again, even if it tasted like hot steaming compost.

He wandered around his studio- it was a mess, depression had kept him from cleaning or moving or doing much of anything beyond the barest minimum to survive- and wrinkled his nose at the pile of laundry that had taken over his entire bed and the pile of dishes sitting beside it.  This was a hazard. This almost completely guaranteed cockroaches.

Down his throat went the coffee, and he pulled his laundry bag out from the mire under his bed.  If he couldn’t bring himself to write, he could at least get some cleaning done and seem like less of a slovenly weirdo when Fareeha inevitably stopped by to see him later in the week.  Wouldn’t do to have his slowly spiraling depression on full display.

Dishes- into the sink.  Laundry- into the bag. He tugged on a reasonably decent pair of pajama pants and scuffed on the pair of crocs a friend had given him last Christmas as a joke, pulled on something approaching a rain poncho and hoofed his heavy way down the stairs with his bag on his back like some kind of demented, smelly Santa Claus.

Out into the street- it stank, as usual.  Cities had a distinct funk that Jesse could never get fully used to.  It permeated everything and turned his stomach when it rained, because even the rain smelled bad.  Sewage, he figured. Sewage, homeless piss and probably a dead rat or pigeon. He missed the warm scent of sand and cedar and sage, missed the sun and breezes.  Missed the feeling of waking up warm in a pair of accomodating arms, to a smile and a kiss and slow, lazy lovemaking. Everyone here had a fucking  _ schedule _ .  The east coast was rude, crude and nasty.  You couldn’t pass the time with a casual conversation.  The most polite you could be was quick and brief and hope you hadn’t wasted anyone’s time too bady.  Nobody smiled. Nobody told jokes. Nobody told a story while they were waiting for something to be done, there was no god damn common courtesy.  He supposed it was the back-country hick in him, but he’d been raised on please and thank you and gee, what a mighty fine day it is, would you like some coffee while you wait, stop and stay awhile and enjoy the sun.  Everyone here was in a rush  _ all the time _ .

If hell was a place, Jesse decided as he avoided a puddle, it was here in Manhattan.  The city was seductive until you actually lived there and discovered that the rent was too damn high, everyone drove like they were tweaking on a not insignificant amount of meth, and nobody bothered to be nice.  Sure, there were museums and restaurants and clubs and all manner of marvels. But it was cold, not just physically, but metaphysically.

And it was  _ loud, _ too.  The City That Never Sleeps lived up to its name, honking and screaming and shooting and roaring at all hours of the day and night.  No stars. No bugs. No weird wildlife noises unless you counted the moaning of a drunk stumbling down the pavement and begging for a couple bucks, please mister, I served in ‘Nam, help an old vet out?

Jesse dodged the man, eyes set firmly on the neon sign for the laundromat at the end of the block.  Shit. It wasn’t that he didn’t have any pity, but he didn’t have any fucking money besides a pocket full of quarters.

Back home there would be a place, probably a church or three for the guy to stay and dry out, get a hot meal and a roof over his head, maybe some hand me down clothes.  Here the homeless were treated like the pigeons and rats and that just rubbed him the wrong way, they were  _ people _ and he was damn near on the verge of joining them, anyhow.  But he shouldered his bag and quickened his pace and inwardly hated himself for ignoring the old man.

This was no way to live.

If he couldn’t make rent at the end of the month he’d call Fareeha, see if she was willing to take off work and haul his ass back to Las Cruces where he could hitch out to some place or another to find work that didn’t have him thirsting for his old buddy Jim Beam again.  Hell, if he pooled all his money he could maybe afford a one way ticket and all she’d have to do was get him to Newark to hop a flight out of here.

He pushed into the laundromat and threw down his bag, wiping his wet hair out of his face.  There wasn’t many there, just some girl with a Gameboy and a beefy dude with spiky hair who was studiously paying attention to his phone.  Ah, well, so much for human interaction. In went the wash. Detergent, quarters, and the machine thrummed to life, giving Jesse about half an hour of uninterrupted time to crawl into his head and relive all of the embarrassing moments of his life.

* * *

 

Next week’s menu.  The week after’s menu.  All the fucking menus for all of the fucking weeks and oh yes, there was a brunch coming up that thankfully had a set menu already but he needed to source the eggs locally as he’d promised in the copy because  _ of course _ he had, where in the hell was he going to find decent eggs in Man-fucking-hattan of all places, but he supposed someone he knew had yard chickens somewhere in some hipster co-op somewhere and they probably knew other kale-crunching craft-beer-swilling milquetoast sons of bitches who  _ also _ happened to have yard chickens.

Did one normally hate their friends?  Hanzo hoped so; otherwise he’d have a lot to explain to his therapist.

He snarled at his phone and shoved it in his pocket, angry that the washer wasn’t finished.  Angry at himself for waiting so long to wash his whites. Angry that he was still awake and kind of hungry and way, way too sober to be dealing with life today.

Genji kept telling him he needed to get laid.  He supposed he was probably right. He’d just been too busy to have his dick touched in over a year.  That was mostly Genji’s fault- if his brother could just be counted on to do his job and do it well without having the dishwasher yell at him every five minutes then Hanzo would have felt like he was able to take a day or two off, go to Provincetown or Fire Island Pines and just get fucked into a pleasant haze for a few days.

His head lolled back and he surreptitiously glanced at the other two people in the laundromat.  Some purple haired girl playing Pokemon and a scruffy possibly homeless man who wore such a look of despair that Hanzo immediately identified with him.  There, truly, was a kindred spirit. He looked like he regretted everything in his life up to that moment.

How relatable.

He let himself smile as the washer buzzed, and he stood, hauling over a basket to wheel his things over to the dryer.  At least he wasn’t alone in wallowing in self-hatred tonight.

Part of him wondered what had driven the man to wear such an anguished expression so openly.  He was handsome, in a rugged kind of way. Maybe his wife had left him, taken the kids. Maybe he had cancer.  Maybe both. Maybe his mistress had called his wife and-

No, he definitely didn’t look wealthy enough to have had a mistress.

Perhaps he’d gambled away his life’s savings.  There, that sounded better. Not much, only a few thousand at best, but the tracks out in Jersey were just close enough to pose a problem to those with weak wills.  Lost his job, lost his retirement, lost everything and was reduced to coming to laundromats for a place to sleep at night while he washed his clothing. That was suitably pitiful, and Hanzo decided that no matter what the man’s story was, he liked his little fiction enough to consider it fact.  He wasn’t ever going to talk to the fellow, anyways, so what was the harm?

Into the dryer his whites (and tighty whities) went, and he sat back down to muse.  The man looked a little green around the gills; perhaps he’d been drinking. Or maybe a bad roller hot dog from some convenience store he’d hit up on the way here.

Hanzo’s phone buzzed and he pulled it out.  Genji. He studiously ignored the nearly unintelligible text and put his phone away again.

* * *

 

Jesse had fallen asleep far more easily than he’d anticipated with the coffee sludge in his system, and was only woken by Beefcake McSpikyhair gently shaking him.

“Your wash finished a while ago.”

Ah, shit, the guy was hot.  Jesse snorted awake and gave him a grateful half-smile and a handwave before dragging himself and his clothes to the dryers, cramming them in and feeding the machine an acceptable number of quarters before plopping back down in his designated Sad Spot.  He watched through heavy-lidded eyes as Hot Guy gathered his things and left. Shame. He hated seeing the guy go, but damn, he sure loved to watch him walk away.

Okay, there was a plus for Manhattan.  He could fuck dudes and generally not get shit for it.  Sure, he didn’t indulge often- it was always easier to find a partner of the softer sex, even in such a haven- but it was nice knowing that he  _ could _ .  

He pulled out his phone, cracked screen and all, set an alarm to wake him (just in case), and started playing Candy Crush to pass the time until the dryer was done.


	2. Chapter 2

Hanzo woke at the hot steaming asscrack of dawn on Brunch Day the next week and immediately regretted it.

He couldn’t go in, he was hung over and angry and probably had some kind of disease.  Maybe a syndrome. He’d of course have to call out sick and let Genji handle the sheer irritation of serving brunch to ugly middle aged facelifted white women in overpriced pantsuits accompanied by either their aging, entitled husbands or their fuckboy of the week.

Genji would ruin it, though.  It, the restaurant, and by extension, him.

He hauled himself out of bed, muttering blasphemy, and dragged his feet to the shower.

Breakfast.  Some kind of microwave thing since he would be too busy to sneak any brunch.  Hair, brushed, tied in its customary topknot. Clothes- his whites- on, crisp, perfect.

Tea.  Hot. Unsweetened, unmilked.

Out into the street and into a cab.

He _really_ needed a vacation.

* * *

 

Jesse awoke to the irritatingly cheerful sound of his ringtone.

Fareeha.

He fumbled for his phone, lost it, picked it back up again and slurred something approaching a “hello” into it, wincing.

“JESSE.  Jessejessejesse.  I got you an amazing reservation.  You have to go. Get up.”

“Morning,” he mumbled.  “Morning. F’reeha, hwat the fuck?”

“Get up, get dressed.  I got you a reservation for brunch at the Mason Jar.”  He could almost hear her bouncing up and down. “Someone cancelled at the last second and I was first on the waitlist!  I didn’t want to tell you unless I was sure.”

He groaned, squinted at the time.  “Honey, what time do I gotta be there?”

“In an hour.  It’s like, two blocks away from you.  Get up!” There was the sharp tone of the military in her voice again.  “Come on, it’s eggs Benedict, they do the best in the city and you’ve got a free pass.  It’s prix fixe and I’ve already paid for it.”

Okay.  Free food got him up and out of bed and into a clean set of clothes that made him look somewhat less like garbage.  Italian shower since the water bill hadn’t been paid, but he smelled okay with the application of a little extra deodorant and looked even better with some of that spray stuff that took the wrinkles out of his shirt.  Run a brush through his hair, some of that dry shampoo.

He stared in the mirror at himself.  Respectable enough for the public eye, at least.

He snagged his notebook and pen and phone and took the stairs two at a time down into the street, his stomach roaring its outrage at missing its usual packet of oatmeal.

* * *

 

Brunch was going smoothly.

Brunch was a disaster.

Hanzo stood outside by the dumpster with his vape pen, taking a few deep breaths full of candy-flavored garbage to keep him from screaming and bouncing Genji’s head off the counter.

He loved his brother.  He loved his brother. He loved his brother.

He heard shouting in the kitchen, one voice Genji’s, the other the dishwasher, what was his name, Jack?  He’d have to give the man a raise, he decided. Sous-chef wrangling wasn’t in the job description, and he put up with far more than required.

Another shout, then a crash, then more shouting.  Hanzo prayed quietly for a death that didn’t come.

* * *

 

The line was insane.  People were down the block, half of them didn’t have reservations and were just hoping to get in despite the waitlist and clear signage saying that they basically had a whelk’s chance in a supernova.

It was kind of nice, in a way.  Jesse rarely got to peoplewatch during the light of day, especially in public, so he stood, surprisingly close to the front, and observed.  The hostess- tall, slender, and was that a French accent he heard?- listened in disinterest as a hopeful looking pair of hipsters- she with candy colored hair and a fashionably frumpy dress with clunky combat boots, he with a beard that tried and failed to live up to the otherwise impressive moustache he’d cultivated, both with chunky framed glasses- tried to convince her that no, they had a reservation, it _must_ have been lost, could she look again, they were absolutely certain and totally weren’t lying through their teeth, honest, please, it’s our anniversary.  Behind them was an older couple, more than a little fed up with the youngsters but still smiling and chatting pleasantly with one another. She was attractively plump, tastefully dressed, with gorgeous silvering hair.  She leaned on her husband, also plump, balding, not very good looking, tacky cheap blazer and khakis, but he had a nice ruddy face and he gazed at his wife like he was a teenager who’d just been asked to prom by his crush.

Part of Jesse envied them.  Maybe if he was lucky, someone would look at him like that someday.

The line was a few more deep, but there wasn’t anyone really worth watching, especially now that the hipsters were being asked to leave.  The girl stomped her feet like a four year old and began to cry, which did nothing for the clearly unimpressed hostess. She waved the older couple forward, checked them, and let them in as a few people left.  Some stragglers strolled out of the line, shoulders hunched as they saw the hipster couple’s gambit fail utterly and totally.

Jesse moved forwards, more than a little pleased when the line shortened considerably.  Fancy brunches were a rarity for his budget.

* * *

 

Eggs benedict.  Omelettes. The most over the top potato-leek-goat cheese tart Hanzo had ever made.  Cinnamon buns. Some kind of steak and eggs, but _fancy_ and topped with microgreens. Bottomless mimosas- some he snuck to keep himself well lubricated and sane.  Genji was buckling down for once, chastened by Jack, who was banging out clean dishes, pots, and pans as if on a military assembly line.

Hanzo would absolutely give him a raise.

“There’s a food writer in,” Angela said conversationally as she waited for a frittata to finish from another station.  “He looks almost homeless. Should I ask him to leave?”

He almost fucked up the eggs he was poaching.  “What? Can he afford this?”

“He’s prepaid, so I guess so.  Amelie sat him out of the way so he wouldn’t scare off the other customers.”  She chuckled, picking up her plate. “He’s very polite, at least.”

“Mm.  As long as he’s not a nuisance.”  Hanzo straightened. “Besides, looking like you sleep in a dumpster is terribly fashionable right now.  He might be on the cutting edge of style for all that we know.”

* * *

 

When the eggs benedict came, Jesse’s heart soared.  He’d had to ask for just orange juice instead of mimosas- the wagon, the wagon was ruling and ruining his life, he was certain that in a few more weeks he’d be pulling a Jack Torrance and hallucinating a barman in his living room- but the _eggs benedict,_ beautiful, creamy, enormous, perfectly poached eggs topped with luscious amounts of delicate hollandaise sauce, over impeccably smoked brisket and a biscuit that was light and flaky and brought back a vivid sense memory of his mother making biscuits in her run down kitchen back in the desert while little him sat on a stool and played with a busted Hot Wheels.  Some of the choices were a little unorthodox- the brisket instead of the ham, the biscuit instead of the english muffin- but the flavor combination nearly made him cum in his pants at the first bite. The sauce soared, alight on wings of lemon and butter, the egg’s brilliant, almost orange yolk oozed richly decadent on his tongue, the brisket bringing salt and smoke and finishing with the flaky, melt in your mouth biscuit that contained enough butter to probably put a lesser man in cardiac arrest.

He moaned, glad he’d taken a lot of pictures before biting in.  This wouldn’t last at all, not after so many nights of microwave ramen noodles and whatever he could get off the dollar menu that day.

Fareeha was getting the best fucking birthday present he could afford this year.  Best adoptive sister ever, hands down, bar none. She was forgiven for all the shitty teenage years, all the bratty arguments, all the time she ruined his stuff or was gross to him.  This was her absolution, her redemption, and Jesse would never say an ill word towards or about her again.

He flagged down the incredibly blonde waitress with the desperation of a dying man, eyes wide and shining.

“Hey, I know things are really busy, but is there any chance I could talk to the chef?”  His breath caught slightly. “I want- no, I _need_ him to know how this changed my life.  Please. I’m begging you, Miss.”

She paused, her lips twisted in the kind of smile that said she was trying very hard not to laugh in his face, and nodded.  “Of course, I’ll let him know.”

* * *

 

“Hanzo, change into your nice whites.  The homeless food writer is about to ask for your hand in marriage.”

“Tell him I’m married to the stove.”  Hanzo snorted, the deep frown growing deeper as he hunched over the tart, applying garnish with a practiced hand.  “And that the divorce will be messy.”

“He was crying,” Angela hummed.  “I think you broke him. Go out, take a break, and talk with your fan.  He was very insistent.”

“Fine. Keep Genji focused.  Kill him if need be, but don’t let any blood get into the hollandaise or I’ll be ruined.”

* * *

 

Holy shit, it was Beefcake McSpikyhair from the laundromat, and Jesse was immediately in love, tongue tied, and cursing himself for a fool at the imperious look the chef was giving him.

He sat up, straightened his shoulders, and caught his breath, letting himself smile.  People liked his smiles, liked him, and he knew he had to make a good impression. Chefs didn’t like getting hauled out of the kitchen during a busy lunch.

“Your eggs benedict just saved my life,” he said, with blunt honesty.  “I’m a food writer. Uh, I write under Joel Morricone, I’ve done a few...”

No change from the intense stare.

“...a few articles here and there.  But this is... it’s great. Have you sat down and had any of it?”

The corner of the chef’s mouth twitched downwards.  Shit. Jesse was blowing it.

“But I need you to know that this is without a doubt the most perfect thing I’ve ever put in my mouth, and I don’t think I ever want to eat anything else ever again.  Seriously.”

The corner twitched again, this time upwards, and the chef nodded.  Oh, fuck, he was hot. Painfully hot. The few brain cells Jesse had managed to pull together made a screaming run for the window as he witnessed a slow, growing smile spread across Beefcake’s impossibly plush lips, the look in his eyes gentling just the tiniest bit.

“Thank you.”

Oh, lord.  Jesse felt his very soul tremble at the sheer holy brilliance of that small smile, the husky, low voice.  He wished he’d had time to dress up nice this morning.

“You’re welcome.  Uh... I know you’re busy, but would you like to join me?  Please? And I’ll take a rain check if you like. I got no plans today besides this.”

To his unending surprise, he saw the steel in Beefcake’s eyes waver, and he sat, pulling up a chair.

* * *

 

Morricone.  The one food writer Hanzo actually enjoyed reading these days.  He was earnest, he didn’t pull punches, he didn’t get lost in flowery prose.  He didn’t put in anecdotes until the _end,_ which was a wonderful change from the usual nonsense he waded through.

It was a spur of the moment decision.  Genji was doing a good job today, the other chefs were more than capable, and it wasn’t every day that Hanzo was asked to sit down and relax and spend time _enjoying his own damn food_.

“Angela, eggs benedict for me, please.  I’m taking my break.”

Something about Morricone’s face seemed terribly familiar, bringing up memories of rain-soaked neon signage and the smell of dryer sheets.

“...did I meet you at some point?”

And then it hit him.  The sad looking man at the laundromat not long ago.  The one he’d decided had bet his entire life on the ponies, or dogs, or whatever.  He couldn’t tame the smile that rose on his face as he leaned a little closer, stealing a sip of the mimosa- oh, no, orange juice.

“Would you like some champagne?”

“No, no thank you.  I don’t drink.” The _anymore_ was silent, but there.  “Listen, thank you for joining me.  Mind if I ask a couple questions for this piece I’m doing?  Swear it won’t take but a moment.”

“Take all the time you need,” Hanzo found himself saying indulgently.  “I enjoy your writing very much, Joel.”

* * *

 

Holy shit, this guy was a fan.  He liked Jesse’s writing. He was going to actually spend some time talking with him.

“Actually, name’s Jesse.  Joel Morricone’s just a pseudonym,” he admitted.  “You’re really something, mister...?”

“Shimada.  But you may call me Hanzo.”

Oh fuck, oh god, that was a regal name to go with a regal face and a regal man.  Jesse wanted to swim in a river of Hanzo’s voice forever.

Deep breaths.  He could ignore the screaming of his libido and his Thing for rough, accented voices and take notes like a good little writer.

“So let’s start with the basic stuff.  What made you open The Mason Jar?”


	3. Chapter 3

Hanzo wasn’t certain what had charmed him most about Jesse McCree: the smooth, rich sound of his voice clipped with a faint twang, the earnestness of his expression, or the broad set of his shoulders accompanied by just the slightest hint of chest hair peeking out of his shirt-collar.  Regardless, the man was delicious, as inviting and warm as the eggs benedict they had shared, and he wasn’t at all surprised by himself when he’d invited him back to his place.

What threw him for a loop was when it took all of two seconds of convincing from Jesse to call out for the next day at work.  That was a Genji move. But they didn’t have anything major planned, and when Amelie took the call- usually it would have been Genji, but he’d apparently been pressed into service at the dishwashing station after chasing a server again- she sounded almost pleased.

“You work yourself to exhaustion, Hanzo,” she purred.  “Good for you. I hope you have fun with your homeless food writer.”

“He isn’t homeless,” he protested weakly, but she’d already hung up.

* * *

 

“When’s the last time you took a vacation?”

Hanzo pressed a kiss to Jesse’s belly, reveling in the fuzz he himself couldn’t seem to cultivate, much to his annoyance.  It kept him from having to answer the question that he didn’t even want to consider.

“Come on, Hanzo.  I can see the stress in your shoulders.”  One big, rough-palmed hand slid over one of the aforementioned shoulders, gripping the muscle gently.  “You’re hard as a rock, and not in the way that means we’re gonna have another round.”

“Why do you care?”  Hanzo couldn’t keep the grouchy tone out of his voice.  “Don’t tell me you’re going to sweep me off to Aruba or something.  I have responsibilities.”

That earned a quiet, considering silence from the man he was fixing to go down on again after enough recovery time, and it stung a little.

“I’m sorry.  I don’t take breaks,” he said by way of explanation.  “This is the closest thing I’ve had to a vacation in three years.”

“One day off to fuck a guy you just met isn’t a vacation.”  The hand began to knead. “C’mon. Lie down, let me give you a massage.  Used to do this in college a bunch.”

Hanzo found himself obeying, and Jesse climbed aboard, straddling his hips and beginning to knuckle into a taut spot that had been bothering him for _months._  He found himself moaning, low and liquid and needy, as the other man leaned into his work.

“Look at you.  All knots and tension.  You’re gonna put yourself into an early grave like this, and then who’s gonna make the best brunch in the world?”

“Mmm.  They’ll put up a statue and have pilgrimages, I suppose.  Bringing tribute to the man who made eggs benedict so good that a scruffy cowboy just _had_ to fuck his brains out about it.”  He chuckled into the pillow, moaned deep again.  “Give up food writing. Move in. Become my personal masseuse.  I’ll feed you forever if you keep doing that.”

“Hey, don’t make any offers you don’t intend on following through on,” Jesse laughed.  “With how behind on rent I am, I might just show up at your doorstep with a pile of suitcases.”

“Behind on rent?”  Hanzo propped himself up on his elbows, turning to look at the big slab of handsome sitting on him.  “Don’t you make decent money doing reviews?”

“Not for Manhattan.  Thinking of closing up shop and moving back to New Mexico,” he rumbled. “Can still do some reviews, find a place I can actually afford to maintain.  Something with a yard. No rats.”

Hanzo hummed thoughtfully, eyes sliding shut as he lay back down, pillowed in the unfairly soft blankets.  So neither he nor his staff were terribly far off in their assessment of Jesse. Shame. He was a fine writer.  Nice guy. Friendly. Great lay, too. It would be awful to lose someone so downright _pleasant_ , especially now that Hanzo was considering asking him out on an actual first date.

* * *

 

Jesse smoothed his hands over that powerful back, admiring Hanzo’s pale olive skin.  The man had to bathe in moisturizer to be this much of a joy to touch, utterly flawless and sculpted.  He wondered where he found the time to work out. Chefs didn’t get much time to themselves at all, especially at popular places like The Mason Jar.

He kicked away a bunch of feelings welling up.  He had the bad habit that if someone was nice enough to him, he inevitably started crushing, and hard.  He had no illusions. This was a one night stand that had luckily stretched into an extra day. He’d go home after this with some fond memories, a little more spring in his step, and Hanzo would probably forget about him in less than a week.  Handsome guy like that had to be nipple-deep in dick at all times, probably. He smiled at the thought of Hanzo’s interested look while they had eaten and chatted. There was a smolder in those sharp eyes of his that went down to Jesse’s groin faster than the speed of stink.

Maybe if he was lucky he’d get a callback in a couple weeks, come get some more of that good sugar, but he didn’t hold out hope.

“You deserve some time off,” he crooned gently, still rubbing his hands into Hanzo’s muscles.  “Goddamn, you look so good like this, all laid out. Missed a good bet as a pinup model.”

“So did you.”

He barked out a disbelieving laugh.  “Fuzzy as I am?”

“I know several men who would fall all over themselves just to be suffocated in your pecs.  Body hair isn’t the turn off you think it is.” The smile in his voice was audible. “Look at Hugh Jackman when he doesn’t wax.  He’s a heartthrob. Tom Selleck is getting better with age and he’s practically got a rug growing on him. I rather envy you, actually.  Nice thick hips, incredible ass. You’re burly. You’d look weirdly naked without body hair and I’m sure many people would agree with me.”

“Hn.  Quit distracting me.”  He felt his face flaming.  “You still should take a real vacation.”

“Would you come with me?”

Jesse's hands stilled as he felt something sink in his gut. “Beggin’ your pardon, but we just met.”

“So?”  Another evaluating glance over his shoulder.  Jesse was going to die from those, he was reasonably certain.  “I’d like to see you again. And since you’re so concerned about my well-being, why not come along?”

“I gotta make rent.  And I can’t afford a vacation.”  Shit. Shit. The problems of hooking up with a guy he was pretty sure could buy him ten times over.

“Then let me offer you a job.  I have an investment property, just in case the restaurant goes south.  I need someone to maintain it. You would be given a generous stipend for upkeep, and to essentially live there.  And you could keep doing your writing.”

“Ain’t looking for a sugar daddy.”

“Too bad.  You’ve found one.”  Hanzo’s tone turned haughty.  “And if you think this is just a sugar daddy arrangement, I’m afraid you’re sadly mistaken.  It’s entirely selfish. I don’t want your particular brand of writing to leave Manhattan’s restaurant scene.  I am willing to pay you to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

God, the offer was sweet.  And getting paid to live somewhere sounded pretty great, too.  He just had to nurse his wounded pride about it.

“Let me think it over,” he said carefully.  “I’m not aiming on being a kept man.”

“Of course not.”

He sucked his teeth, leaned down to press a kiss to the back of Hanzo’s neck.  “God, you’re weird.”

“Chefs usually are.  It’s all part and parcel of the business.  You really have to be unhinged to want to do this as a career.”

“I’ll bet.  But if I accept, you’re going on a vacation so you don’t keel over from stress.”

“If you come with me.”

“Fine and dandy by me.  I need to get out of the city, anyways.  Smells weird and I miss trees.” A grunt as he worked his elbow into the meat of Hanzo’s shoulderblade.  “Goddamn, I swear you’ve got rocks under your skin.”

* * *

 

Hanzo’s “investment property” was a tidy brownstone in Brooklyn that he’d always thought of updating and retiring to, but part of him was sure he’d cack it before hitting fifty and it sat empty, untouched, unloved, floors in need of refinishing, woodwork in need of stripping, bathroom and kitchen in need of updating.  It was functional, but old. He paid to have the outside taken care of so the neighbors wouldn’t complain and he wouldn’t get fined. He’d picked it up on a whim when the previous resident- some sweet little old lady, he’d heard- had finally had to go to a nursing home when her Alzheimer’s got too bad and her kids just hadn’t wanted to deal with fixing it and sold it to him for a pittance.  There was the faint scent of cat urine still, but most of that had gone with the shabby carpets he’d torn up the week after he bought it.

“This it?”

“This is it,” he confirmed.

Jesse stared up at it.  Fuck, this thing had to have a frankly infinite amount of space in comparison to his terrible studio. “And you want to pay me to live here?”

“Essentially.  It’ll give me motivation to renovate it.”

He sniffed, sucked his teeth, kicked at the pavement.  What the fuck kind of rich bastard shit was this? “Gonna give me a tour?”

Up the stairs they went, Hanzo unlocking the door.  “It’s not in great shape, but it’s liveable. The outside is maintained regularly so you don’t have to worry about that.  It smells... not the freshest,” he said apologetically. “But that’ll be taken care of. Feel free to strip off any wallpaper.”

It _was_ large, but the space was cut up in that way that only Victorian homes were.  No lines of sight, countless different rooms. It gave off a distinctly haunted vibe.

“You wouldn’t have like, a crazy wife locked in the attic here, would you?  Any family curses?” Shit, something had to be wrong with it. “Why aren’t you living here, big place like this?”

“I live a few blocks from the restaurant.  Short commute.”

Shit.  Jesse couldn’t argue with that.

Three floors, lots of bedrooms.  Clawfoot tubs that had admittedly seen better days but could be really handsome with a scrubdown with a wire brush and little Rustoleum.  Nicotine stained wallpaper that smacked of the 1970s. Little backyard with an overgrown patio and a concrete lawn gnome with all of the paint worn off from sun and rain.

Still nicer than his little shithole, ugly avocado appliances notwithstanding.

“Fuck.  I’ll do it.”  He swore under his breath, spat in the weeds, and offered a hand.  “I don’t have much furniture, though.”

He felt a little like he was signing his soul away for the sunny smile Hanzo gave him as they shook on the deal, but god, it was worth it to watch the chef’s shoulders slump in relief.

“That’s fine.  Consult me on any major changes you make, but I doubt you can make it any uglier than it already is.  If you find that any appliances need replacing, let me know.”

* * *

 

“What do you mean, you’re taking a week long vacation?”  Genji slapped his hand on the counter, eyes bugging at Hanzo’s calm demeanor.  “Are you on drugs? What the fuck are we supposed to do?”

“Run the restaurant, of course.”  He arched an eyebrow. “You’re quite capable when you’re not running off for a quickie in the cellar.  I’m fairly confident you’ll do just fine without me for a _week_.  I’m not leaving permanently.”

“You never take a vacation!”

“Exactly.”  Hanzo’s resolve was starting to waver, but he had to keep his eye on the prize of that sweet, sweet cowboy ass.  “I need one. Everything is in order, the deliveries are all paid for, and the menus are all set. All you need to do is cook the food and have the staff serve it, and there shouldn’t be any issues.”

Genji stared at his brother like he’d grown a second head.  “But you’re a _workaholic_.  You don’t know how to relax.  You’re even stressed when you’re high.”  He reached to feel Hanzo’s forehead, yelped when his hand was slapped away.  “Is this about that guy you spent all day with last week? The writer?”

“No.”

Genji’s eyebrow mirrored his brother’s.

“Yes.  Fine. He made me promise to take some time off and stupid me said yes.”  Hanzo threw up his hands, lips twisting in a snarl. “Fine, okay, I’ll call him and tell him I can’t.  It’ll all be just peachy keen. I knew this was a stupid idea.”

He was stopped by a hand on his shoulder, and a strange light in Genji’s eyes.

“What?”

“Hanzo.  My dearly beloved big brother whom I care for more than life itself.”  He shook him gently. “If you had told me this was for dick, then you would have had my blessing the moment you brought it up.  Go. Get laid on a beach. Fuck the shit out of that man and come back with a nice tan and maybe a new tattoo. I will _not_ let you cancel this.”

And in that moment, Hanzo’s heart swelled with love and devotion for Genji.  He may have been a royal pain in the ass, he may have driven him up a wall, he may have made Hanzo’s life infinitely more complicated and dramatic than it needed to be, but by god did he feel the sheer aching _pride_ in Genji’s words.  He met his eyes, smiled and nodded, and pulled him into a tight hug, tears threatening as he crushed Genji to him.

* * *

 

“And you’re getting _paid_ to live here?”  Fareeha dropped a box of Stuff- probably mostly clothes- in the front living room of the brownstone.  “How the hell did you swing this one?”

“Listen.  I don’t know.  He’s kind of weird.”  Jesse was messily shoving his books into the built in bookcase.  “I come in, I have some brunch, we bang each other’s brains out, and then he says he doesn’t want me to leave New York and he’s got a place needs kept up.  Like, shit, I knew I was good in bed, but not _that_ good.”

“Ew.  So... you have a sugar daddy?”  She glanced around, skeptical.

“I guess?  Maybe? Fuck, I don’t even know.  But he seems nice enough, and we’re gonna go on vacation together.”  His copy of _Red Dragon_ slid out of its spot onto his head, and he swore loudly.  “Hell. I could fit all my stuff in just this room. Guess I better go furniture shopping once the check clears.”

“I’d just take the money and run, if it were me.  You’re _definitely_ gonna get serial killed.”  She headed out the door to grab another box, Jesse close on her heels.  “I’ll show up one day and he’s wearing your skin and prancing around to Goodbye Horses.”

Jesse rolled his eyes, cackling.  “Shit! Then maybe someone’ll finally appreciate my writing!  You always get more famous when you die.”

“You have to publish first,” she reminded him, flicking his ear before hefting a heavy box sloppily marked “Dishes.”  “You’ve had The Great American Novel kicking around since you were a teenager.”

“Yeah, and it ain’t finished yet.  That’s my life’s work, Fareeha. You don’t just write a novel, you _craft_ it.”

“Tell that to James Patterson.”  She gave him an affectionate kick in the shins.  “So where are you going with your handsome serial killer chef?”

“Place called Provincetown?  Dunno, he said it was like a gay hotspot.  Beach town. Looks cute on Google, at least.”  He shrugged. “Nice place to get axe murdered in, I guess.”

“Mmm.”  Fareeha’s look was unimpressed.  “Sounds expensive.”

“Probably is, but I ain’t complaining.”

* * *

 

Everything Hanzo could possibly need for a week was packed.  He’d taken his T shot; everything would be fine until they returned.  Jesse had said he was all moved in and ready to go.

He was being very stupid, but at least it was with everyone’s blessing.  He shoved his last bag into the backseat of the rental car, some tiny little Nissan thing- there was plenty of room for Jesse’s stuff, right?- and slammed the door, hopping into the driver’s seat before he could talk himself out of it.

The ride to Jesse’s was harrowing, as was any driving experience in New York, but it wasn’t long before he pulled up to the house and honked the horn, letting out a nervous breath.  He could do this, he could relax, he could be a functional human being outside of a kitchen.

He couldn’t help but smile when he saw Jesse stroll down the steps, a single backpack and a tote bag in hand.  Of course he would travel light. At least he didn’t have to worry if their stuff would all fit.

“Ready, sunshine?”  Jesse’s smooth voice already had the tension easing from Hanzo’s brow.  “Now I’m trusting you not to drive me into the woods and kill me. I’ll be pretty annoyed if this was all a plan to have my liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.”

He snorted with laughter at that and passed him a phone charger.  “The only reason I would kill you is if you get us lost. But if I have to be compared to a murderer, at least Lecter has some style and class.”

“Only the best paranoid delusions for my sugar daddy.”


	4. Chapter 4

Four days later, Jesse couldn’t believe the incredible luck he’d found himself with.  The town was perfect. The little bed and breakfast they were shacked up in was almost painfully charming.  And Hanzo- oh, sweet, beautiful Hanzo who loved all over him so damn good every night and morning- seemed actually _happy_ for the first time since he’d met him.  As the stress melted away, so had the nervousness between them, and Jesse found himself totally smitten.

He closed his eyes, feeling Hanzo under his arm, his fingers idly playing with the thin scars under Jesse’s pecs, tracing them back and forth, and making Jesse hum contentedly at the sweet, shivery sensations the light touches sent through him.

“Still waiting to get serial killed.”

Hanzo pushed himself up to watch Jesse’s face, smiled, leaned in for a slow, easy kiss that made Jesse melt beneath him.  “You’ll just have to be disappointed, then. I like your organs right where they are.”

“Mmm.  So do I.”  He stroked Hanzo’s hair- without the gel it was still coarse, thick, but in that pleasant way that made him want to grip onto it and pull him down for another round of lazy sex.  “Pretty partial to them. They’re awful important to me, don’t you know.”

“I’d assume so.”  He lay back down, groaning in sheer contentment.  “We should get up and go have lunch. We’ve wasted the entire morning.”

“I wouldn’t call this wasted.  We’ve _luxuriated_.  There’s a difference.”  Jesse winced as his stomach grumbled.  “But I could do with some food. I guess.  Even though you’re tasty enough.”

“Now who’s the serial killer?”  Still, Hanzo rolled off the bed and stood, stretching in the brilliant sunlight streaming in the big window.  Their room offered a view of the back garden, full of blue hydrangeas and colorful petunias and a path through it all made of broken sunbleached clamshells. Private.  Nice. They didn’t have to worry about anyone peeking in from the street, which was better than their usual surroundings.

Jesse followed him into the bathroom, kissed his shoulder before hopping into the shower.  “Hey now. That implies planning, and I’ve never planned a damn thing in my life.”

“That’s terribly comforting,” Hanzo chuckled.  “Has your sister decided I’m not going to kill you?  She seems very nice otherwise.”

“She is.  She’s also wondering what your angle is.”

“I haven’t been laid in over a year, and I like you.  There. That’s my angle.” Hanzo’s voice was muffled around his toothbrush.  “And I seem to have channeled my brother’s terrible impulse control for some reason, though I can’t say I mind much in this case.”

“I’m pretty happy with it, myself.”  Jesse wanted to spend an hour in this shower- the pressure was perfect, the water nice and soft, the soap provided lightly scented and delightfully frothy and left his body hair nice and silky to the touch.  “Still think you’re weird, though, but it’s the kind of weird I can grow pretty partial to.”

“Good.  Because I’m fairly certain this is the best week of my life.”  He reached into the shower, gave Jesse’s ass a friendly grope. “And I’m very much enjoying the company, might I add.  Now don’t spend too long, I want to get in before the lunch menu switches, and I think there’s a special on oysters today.”

 

* * *

 

Hanzo watched as Jesse picked and stumbled his way out on a jetty to get a better picture of the seals sunning themselves on a sand spit a few yards offshore, not even trying to fight the smile that played across his lips.  Having no plans, no schedule, was at first terrifying and then beautifully freeing once he’d been talked out of making any kind of reservations. Usually Hanzo expected his trips to be as structured as his daily life, but Jesse had become a greatly appreciated monkey wrench, preferring to fly by the seat of his pants to see where they’d wind up.  They’d spent time touring galleries, watching art films that neither of them particularly understood but agreed that were _very_ pretty, if nothing else, window shopping, and above all, playing on the beach.  Hanzo knew he was totally lost when he’d been goaded into helping Jesse build a sand castle, something he hadn’t done since Genji was in diapers.  The castle had been a lumpy disaster and washed away with the first good wave once the tide began to crawl its steady way in. He couldn’t help but laugh at Jesse’s mock devastation, pushing him down for a kiss before another wave went crashing over them and sent them running inshore, whooping and grabbing for their towels.

He liked being this carefree, he decided.  Maybe letting his impulsive side out from time to time wasn’t a bad idea.

Maybe he deserved the odd vacation now and again.

He sighed happily as Jesse finally began to make his unsteady way back to him, beaming proudly at the photos he’d gotten.  The sun was just starting to sink, the sky painted pink and purple and peachy gold and leaving shimmering trails on the water.

“Looks like something out of a romance novel.”  Jesse slid an arm around his waist, expression strangely unreadable.

“It does, doesn’t it?”  He leaned into the other man’s warm bulk.  “You don’t get this in the city.”

“Sure don’t.”

The sound of the ocean and the cry of gulls stretched between the silence they shared.  Something was on Jesse’s mind, but Hanzo decided that if it was important, he’d know sooner or later.

“Why don’t we make this a thing?”

“This?”

“Us.  I’m having a lot of fun, and you’re sweet.  I mean, technically you’re my employer, but that’s pretty informal.  Let’s date. Let’s make this a thing. I like spending time with you and I’d like for it to keep happening.”

Hanzo went quiet, but didn’t pull away or protest.  Maybe this would be worth exploring. He’d certainly wanted Jesse to stay around- and yes, it was because he found him deeply attractive, not just for his writing.  He couldn’t deny that he felt more at ease around him than anyone else; he had a soothing, comforting aura that made Hanzo crave him like a drug.

And the sex was pretty great, too.

“I’d be... interested.  Potentially,” he said slowly, feeling the words out as he said them.  “I can’t promise anything, but I genuinely enjoy being with you.”

“Not asking for promises.  Just maybe that I can call you my boyfriend and brag about you to my friends.”

“Only if I can do the same.”

“Sounds fair to me.”

 

* * *

 

Back in Brooklyn, and Jesse flopped back on his bed, heart still fluttering from the goodbye kiss Hanzo had given him at the door, with a promise to stop by tomorrow to pick him up for a chef’s dinner at someone’s house.  He still smelled of sand and sun lotion, probably had a few seashells tucked into pockets he’d only find in the wash, and he was deliriously happy. He had a boyfriend, he had a home, he had a few restaurants to review over the next week, and finally, _finally,_ things were looking up for Jesse McCree.

He pulled out his phone, scrolled through his photos again- there were a surprising amount of photos of Hanzo laid out all disheveled and freshly fucked- and settled on a selfie of the two of them kissing over a lobster dinner, sending it to Fareeha.

_Guess who’s official?_


End file.
